Loser Like Me.

I hate children.
No, not in my usual “why do people reproduce and ruin their lives” kind of hate children. I mean, there are specific children that I hate…and clearly as I am on the verge of 33, that is just NOT healthy. Yes, one could argue that it’s really not healthy to hate anyone, but an adult hating a child is definitely the sub-basement of unhealthy.
Who are these lovely little creatures who have become the subject of my ire?
A few of A’s classmates. Duh. Mama Bear in full effect.
Look, I know my daughter is weird. She acts weird. She says weird things. She sometimes dresses weird (when left solely to her own devices). She’s into weird things for people her age.
She’s just plain weird. I get it.
She’s also incredibly emotional which works for and against her. She used to cry a lot. I am sure there is a deeper reason for that but that’s why I have her savings account split between college AND the  therapy she will eventually need.
Her humor is on par with Fozzie Bear. She’s about as graceful as a robot with a dying battery. She’s not into sports and would much rather read a book or play a game online than toss any kind of ball around.
All of this adds up to her being a target for the supposedly “cool” kids. The ones who were LUCKY enough to be blessed (or drilled to death) with athletic prowess. The ones who follow all of the trends. The ones who come from money or at the very least, from parents who instill in them a false sense of superiority. The ones who are viewed as “popular” if for no other reason than the fact that they deemed themselves as such, and everyone else just sort of fell in line.
It may have been 21 years (WTF!?!) since I was a sixth grader myself, but it’s the same song and dance.
And I remember.
I remember having A’s two left feet. I remember trying so hard to be everyone’s friend. I remember not understanding why people were so mean when I had never DONE ANYTHING to them. I had my own group of friends, as A does, but instead of feeling like we belonged to our own clique, we were just a collected gang of square pegs, which made us an even easier target. By eighth grade I had started on my journey of personal discovery (a journey that should complete any day now. No really, any day. Any day at all. WHO THE FUCK AM I!?!) so it became a lot easier for me to let the popularity bullshit roll off my back.
Though I was never the stereotypical version of “popular” come high school (being a theatre major will do that to a person…particularly a person who spells theatre with an “re”), I had an incredible, artistic, diverse and loving group of friends that carried me through that 4 1/2 year (don’t ask) period of my life.
To this day I am drawn to the same type of people. The writers. The actors. The artists. The beautiful fools who seem to think they can change the world (and who are actually doing it!) I am blessed with a magical tribe of allies and associates. Of chosen family (because let’s be real, my actual family is F-U-C-K-E-D.)
I know this will be true for A too. I know this is just a phase. I know that I need to step back and let it…her life, play out. It is not my place to swoop in and fight her battles, no matter how much it hurts or feels like they are my own.
I know that this will all be behind us her in a few years and that A will go on to live a perfectly lovely life. She’s already made a home for herself with an alternative crowd. Her compassion, empathy and interests draw an eclectic group of kids. The type of kids who are going to grow up and have the really cool BK loft parties while the “popular” kids will be stuck on the ever status-attaining, 60 hour workweek living, Rohypnol hangover having treadmill that makes way to an Uppa Baby stroller pushing, “Mommy and Me” Starbucks Meet-up attending, Pinot Grigio on a Monday swilling, consumerist, dead on the inside eternity. They will perpetuate a cycle of sameness while A and her rare breed of awkward acquaintances and clumsy cohorts will be the change this world so desperately needs.
 Or I’ll wind up in jail. Either way, A is destined to be different.
What a lucky girl.

Hey you…get off of my cloud.

The boxes are unpacked, a place has been found for everything, and everything is indeed in its place. The stress of the move has faded like the cardboard paper cuts that hacked away at my hands those first few days in the new apartment. The space feels less like a “new place” and more like home.
Surveying the apartment, it is clear that it will never reach the sparsity that a true minimalist requires, but I think it’s reached a nice balance of stuff to space. Although I still have a few pictures strewn about, a dining cabinet filled with tabletop items, and full size furniture in every room of the house, there is still a good flow. The space feels open and airy, not claustrophobic. As I said in my last post (at least I think I said this in my last post, humor me) my family and I have been very happy since we moved here. There is a completely different energy compared to our last apartment and with that energy, a sense of possibility and an overall feeling of peace.
Ok, I don’t know for sure whether or not it is the new space or lack of superfluous belongings that have brought the three of us to such a zen-like state, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I know that I could probably go even further and purge more of our stuff, but in the short term I am content with the stasis reached on all things material. Though I must admit, I never see myself going 100% in on the minimalist home idea. One tiny chair in the corner of a huge, empty room is a little too “french movie” for my tastes. I like my home to look streamlined, yes, but still feel cozy. White washed walls with a tiny Lucite dining set does not say “cozy” to me.
So, does this mean I fail at minimalism? Ultimately, yes, but fuck that. I may not be the textbook definition of the movement, but when have I ever been the textbook definition of ANYTHING (aside from “fabulous,” natch.) No, like everything else, I am going to half-ass write my own definition. I am going to do minimalism…my way. There are PLENTY of other areas where I can trim the excess in my life.
For example, did you know that right now you could be suffering from “digital clutter?” Of course you didn’t! Who the fuck would?

Has this happened to you?

That is the lamest sounding bullshit EVER.

It’s true though. There are literally tens of blogs written about how people have too much stuff gunking up their desktops, their inboxes, their “clouds,” along with the proper ways to tidy up their digital life, no trip to the troposphere necessary.
I’ve decided this will be my next project. So far, I’m going to be honest, it fucking blows. Not because I have too many errant files or an inbox loaded with garbage, but because I have come to realize that I have dribs and drabs of my digital life all over the goddamn interwebs. Seriously, I am a web-based Hansel and Gretel; I have left bread crumbs all over this virtual forest.
I am not even talking about the now dormant Myspace pages or Livejournals that are out there haunting the internet. Those would easily disappear with a simple click of “delete account” (if I could only remember their passwords!)
I am referring to the various web-based platforms I CURRENTLY use. The website that allows me to bookmark…other websites. The cloud storage website where I store my clouds. The Facebook that apparently houses two of me (don’t even ask me how that happened!) The Twitter page that I still don’t quite understand. The 30,000 different sites I use for photo storage. Pinterest (why!?!). Evernote. My 4 gmail accounts, and (yikes!) my two AOL accounts.
Well, OK I never actually GO to my AOL accounts. One address is older than my daughter and the other was created when J and I were planning our wedding. They’re still out there though…mocking me with their “digital clutter” creating ways.
Or something.
I took a deep breath and decided to start with Evernote, mostly because before this project I forgot I even HAD an Evernote account, so I figured there was no way for it to possibly backed up with virtual garbage.
Much to my joy, I was right. In fact, the account was practically empty save for a few random “to do” lists from 2010 and a handful of blog ideas that never manifested. This would be easy! I deleted the to do lists immediately and quickly perused the blog ideas for any nugget of salvagability. I was about to declare my Evernote house “CLEAN” when I noticed a folder that I missed in my initial once-over.
The folder was titled “READ ME” and it housed one whole document. There was not one part of my brain that could even begin to recall what this folder could be.
Fearing the rabbit hole I may no doubt fall into were I to open the folder, I thought about deleting its contents sight unseen. My curiosity got the better of me though so I quickly hovered my mouse over the folder and clicked on the icon before I could change my mind.
The title of the lone document was “Melissa Makes a List to Prove What She Already Knows.” It was created July 14, 2010. It sounded fairly innocuous, so I opened it. The document fleshed out in one page reasons for staying or leaving my soul-crushing corporate job.

Should I stay or should I go now?

There were 2 reasons for me to stay.

Despite the recession, despite living in a (gorgeous) apartment that cost more a year than the average person makes, despite my total lack of plan or safety net, the “Reasons to Go” column prevailed. I gave my notice two days after that document’s creation.
Looking at the list almost two years later, I feel as though a completely different person wrote it. I can’t believe I allowed myself to be that miserable for a (shitty) paycheck! I can’t believe I let myself be defined by my house and my “things” instead of my character, my actions, and my relationships. I can’t believe I didn’t set my cube on fire and lead the publishing proletariat to freedom (or at the very least smack my boss upside the head with an Intro Spanish textbook.)
So much about my life has changed since I walked away from the “security” of the corporate world. I have made the most amazing connections. I have taken to the streets and been arrested fighting for social justice. I have been a part of HISTORY, for chrissakes! Only one year ago my daughter and I sat in the NY State Senate gallery and watched as the Marriage Equality Bill was passed. You don’t get to experience anything quite like that sitting in a cube creating “one pagers” for fucking textbooks.
The connections I’ve made, the experiences I’ve had, the relationships that have been renewed and deepened, the life I have built in less than two years time feels more mine now than any other time in my life.
I thought about saving the list. Yeah, it’s intended use had passed and could now easily be classified as “digital clutter,” but so what. It was also a reminder of how far I’ve come and keep going on the crazy road that is my life. I may be more sure of myself now than I have ever been, but even the most confident person sometimes needs to bring to mind a time when they weren’t so sure.
I kept the list…in the trash. I figured at the very least deleting the original folder it was housed in gave the illusion of less clutter. Minimalism my way. It may not be the spartan internet presence a true minimalist requires, but who cares, it works for me, and that’s really all that matters.
So far I haven’t really felt the sense of ease one is supposed to feel as they wipe their web life clean…maybe after I delete the 24,485 emails on AOL…

Zen and the Art of Ditching the Japanese Tea Pot Collection

They say (whoever “they” are) that moving is in the top three of most stressful life events, right behind death of a spouse and divorce. Show me a person who actually enjoys moving, and you might as well show me Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny…they are all figments of our imagination.

Never one to look on the dark side (HAHAHAHAHAHA) however, I do try to find the silver lining in the cloud of relocation.

It isn’t easy. Dealing with realtors sucks. Finding a mover is a nightmare. Packing blows, and unpacking is akin to medieval torture. However, there is one teeny, tiny spec of joy in the chaos that is packing up all of your worldly possessions and transporting them to a new location…throwing them the fuck away.

Don’t get me wrong, we all need things. A bed to sleep on, clothes to cover our bodies, something to eat off of, and an item or two to keep us entertained, to name a few. Then there are the sentimental items. The pictures, nick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other assorted paraphernalia of past lives that seem to grow as time goes on. There are also the collections. DVDs. Records. Your mom’s Precious Moments dolls. Dildos. These are like objects you go out of your way to accumulate in a pathetic attempt to have your material possessions make you seem like you are much cooler than you really are.

Well, ok your mom’s Precious Moments collection is lame as hell, but you get my point.

Finally, there are the miscellaneous items. We don’t know how we procured them, hell we may not even know what they are, but nevertheless, they’re ours. Another physical item that needs to be cleaned, stored, and transported.

I had a problem with all of this.


The fragments of my past have been slowly taking over every surface of our apartment. Our DVD collection was belligerent and numerous. We attempted to keep them orderly by packing them in special “DVD boxes” from Ikea. This helped us to keep the DVDs out of the way, but took up 3 shelves in a closet. Every plane in our dwelling seemed to be littered with some sort of candle-like substance, picture frame, or ethnic statue knockoff with remnants of the “Home Goods” label still affixed to the bottom.

It was madness, I tell you…madness.

Then we decided to move. Suddenly what is always a horrific incident of terror shone in a new, glittery and gay light. Instead of stressing over the moving process, I was going to embrace it. I was going to use this time to throw our shit away.

I was going to be ruthless. No picture frame was safe, no DVD could hide. It was going to be a glorious time of soul-cleansing home purification.

And it was.

At first, anyway.

To start off on the right foot, I attacked an area that would have a serious impact right away. I removed every picture frame from my “Family Gallery Wall,” took out the picture, placed it in an album, and threw the fucking picture frame away.

Sooner or later…Meca Gadget will get you!

I have to admit it felt good! From there I moved into my kitchen. I tossed cookbooks that had never been cracked open, and fondue pots that never worked. I chucked a drawer full of kitchen gadgets that over the course of the year had somehow managed to become intertwined and turn into Meca-Gadget, the most useless monster on the planet.

No, despite my love of cooking and entertaining, if it hadn’t been used, had no discernible use, or became infused with it’s neighbor it was gone.

Next, I voraciously attacked the cabinets and tossed everything from the only glass left from a set of 8 to a gross amount of trifle bowls (what the hell is a trifle, anyway!?!)

Once the kitchen felt sufficiently barren, I moved on in a similar, “take no prisoners” fashion through every room in our apartment. With each bag of trash or box for donation, something miraculous happened.

I began to breathe easier.

It was as though removing the physical “stuff” from my life was lightening the emotional “stuff” as well. I was on a role, and very excited by the lack of moving boxes I seemed to require. This feel-good cleansing of the senses and spirit came to a screeching halt when I entered…the bedroom.

Now, you might think that it was my dresser or closet that gave me pause, or my boxes (and boxes) of shoes. It could very well have been the several bins of purses and other accessories that were hemorrhaging from under my bed. You might think that, but you would be wrong. I had no problem slashing my wardrobe, ditching my shoes, and bagging my bags. It was a project, yes, but staring at a streamlined closet of items I actually wear was a wonderful reward.

My nervous breakdown de jour came when I looked up at the shelving my husband had installed to house the Japanese teapot collection we had suddenly found ourselves in possession of post-wedding. So tormented about the future of these ceramic pots was I that I did the only rational thing possible…avoided them all together.

Remember that scene in “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” where the gangly protagonist masterba, goes into a burning pet store and proceeds to save all of the animals?

I’m tired of these motha-fuckin snakes…

You don’t? Fuck you, it’s my story. Humor me.

One by one Mr. Wee goes through the pet store and saves each animal grouping like some high-water wearing Noah. That is with the exception of a slimy cluster of snakes. Each time he passes the snake’s tank, he stares at it in disgust, and moves on to the next creature knowing that eventually he would have to contend with the slippery reptilian mass. The scene ends with him running out of the burning pet store screaming; a pile of snakes in each hand.

Those Japanese teapots were my snakes.

I did a fantastic job intentionally avoiding coming to a decision about their fate. In the beginning, it was easy to do. But with each bag of garbage and moving box marked “Fragile” (it’s Italian), I was one step closer to having to contend with my own reptilian mass…of porcelain.

That day came two days before we moved. The days leading up to it had been long and emotionally fraught. My husband and I were both close to our max stress level. We went from having all of the time in the world to “leisurely” move (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA) to feeling incredibly behind as the result of another death in our family (yeah, we have that kind of luck!)

Two deaths in two months makes you realize that none of your stuff…


…actually matters in the grand scheme of things. Yes, this teapot collection that had been lugged around to five different apartments was a lovely reminder of my wedding day, but so was my husband, and he didn’t need to be wrapped in newspaper every time we moved, or dusted weekly (he’s very active, so the dust doesn’t have time to settle.)

There was a lot to do, and we were trying to get through everything without breaking down. I thought having my husband there as I executed my ruling on the teapots would be helpful. He is always the rational one. The practical one. The stone-cold emotionless “realistic” one.  The one who wanted to keep the collection for sentimental reasons?!?

Oh hell no.

After torturing myself for WEEKS over what to do with those damn pots, I finally grabbed those snakes, and Mr. Suddenly Sentimental was NOT going to change my mind.

I did what any woman who was standing steadfast in her decision would have done in such a situation.

I stood there like a deer in headlights for what was probably a good ten minutes. I then threw out all of the rationalizations I had told myself as to why it was time to purge the pots. Unfortunately, the more he understood my reasoning, the more confused I became. The entire (dusty as hell) pot collection now sat on our bed. There was so much more to do; yet I felt paralyzed. The snakes had bit me. They had won.

I knew I couldn’t take any more time on this issue. I had already spent one breakdown too many on whether or not to part with one particular physical item or another. I needed to end this. Like pulling a bandage off a gunshot wound, I attacked the pile of pottery and threw them into a trash bag, a lump in my chest the entire time. I tied up the bag and added it to the pile of trash waiting to be removed from the house. It was finally over.

We have been settled in our new space for over a month now. It’s larger. It’s airy. It’s clutter-free.

I have not been this happy in a VERY long time.

I have by no means become a full-fledged “minimalist” but there is definitely something to be said for purifying your home of possessions and keeping the clutter at bay. I don’t know that it will necessarily lead to enlightenment, but it sure as hell keeps you from spending the weekend cleaning which opens up a world of possibility for you to go out and experience life rather than sit at home with your stuff.

I know that there is still a lot more that I can do. Two medium plastic boxes sit in my closet full of old journals/yearbooks/photos/Ghosts of Melissas Past that I can probably whittle to nothing, but I think I’ll save that for a day when I have nowhere to be and an extra bottle of gin lying around. Some snakes bite harder than others. I need to be prepared.

Making sure Mr. Sentimental has plans is probably not the worst idea either.

Accountability in my pants

Hey, remember that time I was going to blog about making monthly changes in my life as a way to chronicle the lead up to the end of the world?

Shut up.

So things haven’t gone the way I initially had hoped, that is clear, but as I look back over the last 4 (!?!) months, they really haven’t been a total wash. To be honest, the only part that hasn’t worked out in this blogging experiment is, well, the blogging.

I have managed to maintain regular gym attendance; I have been eating healthier, and above all, I am a lot happier than I was when I set out on this quest. True, I’ve made some mistakes. Ok, I’ve made A LOT of mistakes, and I’m nowhere near as settled with the first three life switches as I had anticipated, but I am able to see where I exactly went careening into a ditch of failure, and much like Aaliyah, I have the desire to dust myself off and try again (wait, she’s….oh).

Here’s the thing, in order for this blog to even come close to accomplishing my drunken schemes, I obviously need to post more than once a month. I am going to need to actually chronicle the changes I have been making, and not just post a quarterly, “could we start again, please” check in.

Sigh. In order to do this, I am going to have to do something I didn’t want; something that is against my very nature.

I am going to have to keep…a schedule.

(Blood curdling scream)

As horrifying as it sounds to my, “all clocks should be taken out back and shot” sensibilities, the only way I am going to save this project from becoming just another pathetic, abandoned web-relic, is by creating a routine. I am going to have to stick to that routine, and as an added flame under my ass, I am going to have to disclose said routine. That way, all four of you bitches know what to expect, and you can call my lame ass out when you don’t get it.

So here it goes. I had originally set out to accomplish 12 life switches; one for each month left on earth before the dinosaurs come back and kill everyone except for Kirk Cameron and the founding family of the Westboro Baptist Church. In my mind (and on paper, even) I had all 12 of these worked out well before I hit “publish” on my first post. Obviously, we are 4 months in, so some modifications had to be made.

Moving forward, here is my plan. Much like the opinions of a certain presumptive presidential hopeful,

this plan is “etched” permanently in the paramagnetic particles of a baby boomer’s childhood toy.

Remaining Life Switches

April 19th until May 9th: Study and implement a more minimalist practice and lifestyle.

May 10th until May 31st:  21 Day detox. Why 21 days? Fuck you, that’s why.

Truth be told, I’ve done some pre-research (presearch?) on this, and after combing through several detox plans, the one I opted for seemed like it would least likely lead me to kill my entire family and everyone within a 30 mile radius. Take a moment to check it out. Who knows, you may want to take the journey with me!

I’ll also be taking the time to study vegan cooking and practice recipes to add to my repertoire.

June: Using what I learned in May about vegan cooking, put together an entire meal plan for the month. Additionally, build off of April’s minimalism by spending no money. Seek out free entertainment, drink at home with friends, catch up on reading and time with family.

July: Working off of June, continue to build and maintain my relationships with my chosen family. Celebrate my 6th year of marriage by having lots of sex (I’m sure y’all are going to LOVE reading about that!)

 August: Take the last month of summer to reconnect with my childhood through my daughter, commune with nature. Limit time indoors and online. Slow down.

 September: While my husband and daughter head back to school, my education will come from reading at least one book a week.

 October: As if turning 33 wasn’t scary enough, I am going to use this month to constantly push my limits, step out of my comfort zone, and maybe even perform again.

 November: To prepare for the holidays, another detox is in order. This one however will involve working on my mental toxins as well as my physical body.

 December: Most people turn to religion at the end of their life, so with 21 days remaining until the zombie apocalypse, I am going to use this time to explore and experience various religions.

Ta-da. 8 ½ months of self-discovery and change all laid out for you to scrutinize.

Now, for the posting schedule, that is going to change SLIGHTLY each month. What won’t change is the amount of posts or which days. The topics however, will obviously change depending on the month’s switch. Regardless of the topic, you can expect a post from me on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.

For example, for the remaining 3 hours in April, I will adhere to the following schedule*:

 Monday: A recap of the weekend and where my adventures in minimalism took me.

Wednesday: What I am learning; thoughts and feelings about minimalist literature, blogs, etc.

Thursday: Mid-week minimalism; some minimalist action I took that day.

Friday: Free for all; check in on other switches I have turned on, random posts about life, or photos of drag queens.

There you have it, a solid framework sure to catapult this blog into an almost mediocre success. All of the pieces are laid out for me, now I just have to actually follow through.

Piece of cake.

No really, shut up.

*Obviously this will begin full-force next week, since it’s already, you know…Thursday.

Memories are Made of This

“Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” John Lennon


There are only so many, “oops my bad” intros I can have to explain away why, for all intents and purposes, this whole project is FUBAR, so I won’t even bother.

Suffice it to say I have always had the best of intentions for keeping up with this blog and its underlying theme. Unfortunately though, it would appear that intentions are like opinions, and well, we all know what they’re like.

You can have your life mapped out to the minute, but when the universe has something else in mind, (which she often does) that map becomes about as good as the theoretical paper it’s written on.

Indeed the universe was not impressed with my map and proved it by snatching it out of my hands, setting it on fire, and throwing it at my head.

In the plainest of terms, my life basically blew up in the last month, and I am just now clearing away the debris. This foundational explosion of my existence however, wasn’t all bad.

No, I am lying, it was really, really, REALLY bad…but not unlike the spectrum of light that appears through the clouds after a rainstorm, the aftermath is proving to be quite a thing of beauty.

Just over one month ago my husband’s grandfather by lineage but father by actions was taken to the hospital. It was clear that this was the beginning of the end.  How soon that end was to be however came as quite a shock when he passed away just 12 days later.

You may ask why the death of my in-laws patriarch would rock my life in such a major way.

Or you may not, whatever, I am going to tell you anyway.

From the moment we were introduced he took me in as one of his own, but more than that, my daughter became his world.

Avie and Papa, celebrating life

I can still hear them playing up in his room, him trying to coax her to say, “I love you” and her dancing around, oblivious to the spell she had cast. Though her and Mama had become fast friends, Avie was incredibly coy with Papa for the first few months that he was in her life.

Our first Christmas as part of their family, I was able to convince Avie to record a message to Papa on an electronic picture frame. She simply said, “Hi Papa, I love you.”

When he opened the meager gift Christmas Eve, and was shown how to make the gadget work, he beamed. More than anything else that lay before him wrapped in shiny holiday paper, this gift was everything. He proceeded to play the message over…and over…and over, until I am pretty sure we all went to bed that night hearing, “Hi Papa, I love you… (click) Hi Papa, I love you…(click) Hi Papa…”

Avie and I came into his life when his health was starting its slow decline, but we were still lucky enough to bask in his presence and energy. And boy, what energy! Those early Sunday dinners, though nothing special gastronomically, were by far some the best memories I have of my in-laws. Sitting around the table, long after the pasta had cooled, and the vinaigrette had begun to congeal slightly at the bottom of the salad bowl, we would listen in awe, as Papa would regale us with amazing personal narratives that almost always seemed to end with him threatening someone’s life, or punching someone in the face.

Lingering over limoncello and legend became a regular Sunday affair and before long the sun was setting on our first summer together. J and I went to his grandparents for our usual visit one Sunday in August, but there was nothing usual about it. It was one of those late summer evenings where the air begins to hint at a cooler time to come, enticing you to squeeze all of the life you can out of the remaining daylight.

Dinner came with its customary show, but the real entertainment happened after the meal was over. J and I brought over a Dean Martin record that I had given him as an early token of our budding romance. While Mama did the dishes, J and I put the record on the turntable in the dining room. For a brief moment, the sounds of the Italian crooner drifted through the house and transported us all back to a different time. Through music and memory, J and I got to experience a sense of Mama and Papa’s early amore, all while living in the moment of our own. We danced and sang, we laughed and watched as, for a short while, any ailments that had steadily attempted to eat away at their already fragile bodies seemed to vanish, and through Dino’s words, they were again able to live la vita bella.

Time marched on, as it has a way of doing, and the Sunday dinners became fewer and far between. Soon, Mama and Papa required assistance in the house, and despite the fact that J’s mother took on the task; dinners were never quite the same as those first summer gatherings.

It’s easy to disassociate yourself from the reality of your loved ones failing health. Your own life becomes a distraction and before long 8 years have passed and you’re standing over the casket of someone you just kind of always expected to be there.

Though this wasn’t the first death I had experienced by far, it definitely hit me in a way that I wasn’t at all expecting. I have lost blood relatives of all ages. I’ve seen friends lose their parents, and I’ve cried over the loss of friends my own age. No death until now however has made me examine my own mortality in such an explicit manner. I don’t know if it’s just my age, but it’s as though Papa’s death has shifted all of us one step closer to the great precipice, and it became painfully clear that I am just not ready to fall to the other side.

I immediately took stock in my life at its current state. All of the parts that I had been unhappy about but felt too paralyzed to truly fix suddenly appeared in crystalline focus. One by one I placed each life fragment into two mental piles, “toss” or “change.” Obviously I can’t toss my health, but I can change the amount of exercise I get and what I ingest into my body. Despite the fact that school was an expensive commitment I had set up for myself, I had never been truly happy there, and as of late felt that it was more of a waste of time than anything. Though I worried about what my next steps would be were I to quit, and still worry, nevertheless I made the decision to put my MSW studies on hold. It has only been two weeks, but my general demeanor has lightened, and the load off my chest is immeasurable. I’ve been saying that I wanted to hone my photography skills for the better part of ever, but always seemed to find less constructive ways to occupy my free time. I’ve since been picking up my camera every chance that I get in an attempt to self-teach as much of the craft as I can. I honestly love it.

So, what does this all mean? Do my loved ones have to die in order for me to cut through my complacency and actually live rather than merely exist? Perhaps, but fuck, for their sake, I hope not! I prefer to think that this was just one unfortunate incident I needed to finally push myself in the direction I have been so afraid to move toward on my own. Papa’s life, more than his demise, has served as a reminder that it all really is fleeting, and it’s up to us to make our own memories, so that one day we too can sit around the dinner table regaling our grandchildren with stories of living la vita bella.




The February of it All.

STOP MOCKING ME, calendar.

I hate February. I hate that it’s (usually) cold. I hate that it’s dark. I hate that no one can pronounce it correctly and that I feel like a freak when I do (it’s FebRUary, not FebUary, OK, bitches?)

Mostly, I hate the sense of utter despair that the month usually signifies. (I also hate that I dropped the “H” word like eleventy-billion times in this first paragraph. As a proponent of social justice and mom who constantly says, “That’s a strong word,” I need to check myself.)

Seriously though, FebRUary is cruel bitch. She tests your limits, and most of us don’t even have a number 2 pencil.

At this point in the year, we should be well on our way to being the change we saw at the bottom of our flute of Taittinger on 12/31. Our bad habits are bad memories, and our fitter, stronger, happier, more productive (robotic-sounding) selves are…fitter, stronger, happ…you get the point.

Damn you, italics and your emPHAsis of doom.

Yes, if we’ve all stuck to our resolutions up to this point, we should be over the 30-day hump and enjoying the fruits of our labor. Actions that seemed almost impossible only a month ago should be becoming second nature. Life is indeed going our way, and the best part about it…it’s ONLY FebRUary.

Wait. Only FebRUary!?! You mean I have to keep this ish up for the next 10 months!?!

Fuck me running…I’m tired of running!


Burning out is very possible in the month of FebRUary. See, everything was new in January. It was a challenge to be met, an adventure to behold. It was exciting and you were determined to NOT be one of those pathetic people who gave up on their resolution 2 weeks into the New Year.

When FebRUary first rolled around, you felt accomplished, maybe a little self-satisfied. YOU went to the gym almost every morning and saw people slowly start to drop off. YOU haven’t had one cigarette, even after you lost your job/significant other/home/best friend/cat. YOU haven’t had any sugar. YOU have been getting at least 8 hours of sleep a night. YOU have refrained from killing since the end of last year.

Get over yourself.

YOU are golden. You so got this.

Until you realize that you don’t.

January was the honeymoon…FebRUary is the marriage. The long, day-to-day, monotonous, Nathan Lane crooning “Is That All There Is” in his most nasally, Jewiest of voices, “RESTOFYOURLIFE” kind of marriage.

It’s the recognition of that awesome thing you’ve been doing, well it’s still kind of cool, but you have to keep doing it…all the time.

In FebRUary, shit gets real. Most people won’t survive. They won’t completely give up, though. No, it will be a slow death throughout the short month.

Excuses will be made.

Poor decisions will become more regular.

Soon old habits will rear their ugly head, and the progress of January will fade faster than Nathan Lane’s appeal as a performer (it’s all I got right now).

Yup...that's all there is.

It doesn’t have to be like this. Like any marriage, the trick is to keep it fresh.

Bring a friend into the picture (wait, what?) You know…to workout with.

Change up your routine. Try something new.

Above all, recognize that perfect is an absolute that only airbrushing and anorexia can attain. Mistakes will happen, but they don’t have to be the death of your success.

Like most marital missteps, they can leave you feeling stronger, more connected, and back on the road to blissville.  (Pause to wipe the vomit from my keyboard.)

So as this short month rages on, don’t let the daunting prospect of having to keep your new life switches turned on indefinitely let you down. Continue to take things one day at a time (ba, ba, da, da) and it will be March before you know it, Ann Romano.

You have NO IDEA who this is, do you?

Long. Cold. March.

Meanwhile, how am I doing with my life switches? Ha. That’ll be the topic for my next post, “WHY THE FUCK DID I THINK IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO CHRONICLE A YEARS WORTH OF RESOLUTIONS ON THE WORLD WIDE FUCKING WEB, and other assorted tales.”

Stay tuned. If anything, it’s guaranteed to make you feel good about your own pathetic existence!

You’re welcome.




Mea Culpa Runneth Over

Deep audible sigh.

A week. A fuuuuuuggggin week. 7 days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been to the gym.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve attempted to write anything substantial.

That’s how long it’s been since I felt in the groove of my own life (whatever the fuck that means.)

Don’t get me wrong. I have completely legitimate reasons for why I not only lost my path; I went careening into a ditch. For one, I have been fighting a major infection. My husband, my gym partner in crime, was also fairly ill last week. Tuesday was a busy day, complete with a final trip to criminal court for a civil disobedience arrest that occurred during the NY marriage equality push, an incredibly intense interview for a new field placement, and a rally in front of Governor Cuomo’s office for homeless youth funding that lead up to, yep, another civil disobedience arrest.

I have had some serious anxiety and mild depression over wanting to move, and the lack of affordable apartments in my area. This culminated in pretty much a major, albeit brief, nervous breakdown on Thursday, where I blamed




I have made over the last 10+ years for the shit show that my life is now. J’s illness + my melodrama = big ol’ fight in the Casa de Us. We’re both Italian and stubborn as fuck, so needless to say, that pretty much ate a good portion of the weekend.

Saturday, I had to go put on a happy face at an event for my daughter’s school.

I am the President-elect of the PTSO (pause for raucous laughter) and had to serve as a judge’s assistant for a chili cook off (pause for even more laughter.)

Fortunately, sneaking in a 6 pack of Hoegaarden makes EVERYTHING better.

Oh, and I watched about 9 hours of Shameless. (Which EVERYONE should watch, and commit certain scenes to memory.)

So, in 7 days my routine jumped the tracks, slammed into the side of a mountain, and caught fire. By now I should be into my 3rd week of this new routine. I should have posted a recap about Week One’s progress (not to mention, Week Two.) Instead, I am sitting here pissed off at the lost time, angry at the fact that I have to basically start from scratch, and scared that I will get derailed again because classes start up next week, and my schedule will get pretty serious.

These are all feelings that I didn’t want to feel. When I set out to accomplish 12 life switches in 12 months, the last thing I wanted was for it to make my life more difficult. These changes are supposed to ENHANCE my life, not cause more problems. I stewed in these feelings for a while.

Then I watched another episode of Shameless.

As I sat watching William H. Macy drink himself into a stupor for the eleventy-billionth time, I had an epiphany that had absolutely NOTHING to do with watching William H. Macy drink himself into a stupor for the eleventy-billionth time.

And you thought I was going to make a connection to the show…

Seriously though, I realized that, to quote Shakespeare, “Shit doth happen.”

Illnesses will happen.

Arguments will happen.

Sudden mental breakdowns and feelings of utter inadequacy will happen (although Christ, I hope not that often).

Chili cook offs will happen (see above).


We can make the choice of going all shrunken violet emo crazy chick who throws her hands up in the air (and waves ’em like she just don’t…wait, what) and gives up, or we can acknowledge that much of this crazy little thing called life is out of our control.

The best we can do is move forward.

I am sitting here with the sinus infection of the ages. I did not make it to the gym today.

I already know that I won’t make it to the gym tomorrow morning either. I have to be up at O’Dark:30to get on a train and head to Trenton where I will be rallying for Marriage Equality and NOT getting arrested (I promise.)

There is still a part of me that feels like I am failing this whole project. I could honor that dark voice and let it take over my thinking. Or I could tell it to sit the fuck down, and shut the fuck up. I’ll go to the gym when I get home in the evening.

And if I don’t, that’s OK too. Wednesday morning is another day.

We’re all doing the best that we can on this rotating sphere of water, rock, and gas. We face obstacles. We make mistakes. The last thing we should be is our harshest critic. We can do our best, but understand that sometimes our best just won’t be good enough, and we will always have the option of trying again tomorrow.

Having a pity party for what should have been is about as useful as tits on a nun. So the next time you feel like going all William H. Macy and drinking yourself into a stupor of shame, get the fuck over it.

The sun will come out tomorrow, Annie, and with that flaming ball of gas, a chance for you to try, try again.

What are you going to do with your new day?